line," gathered her black hair up in a band, and walked-not badly, but a little too much on her toes: Emmy had a dress up to her throat-open, the rogue! with the whitest and prettiest of all chemisettes, whilst her yellow hair-but perhaps the color was a thought richer-was shaken all over her neck in long, glossy curls that seemed only there to dance to the laughing music of her eyes. Angela was tall, graceful, gliding—and rather suggestive of Juno: Emmy was playful as Hebe and a trifle too short for dignity.

They were the belles of the village. Decidedly. And although rivals, were friends: whilst Angela crochetted, Emmy knitted: if Angela played, Emmy sung and although she could only sing old songs, yet I am not sure, if Angela pouted a little, she was not right. Old songs-old thoughts-old friends-old loves! there is more in an old song than you think. They have cost me many tears-but to the story.

It was Saint Valentine's Day, and Ralph Ellerby had twentyseven-" Who in the name of all that is wonderful is Ralph Ellerby? and why had he so many?"

Softly, my fair friends. Ralph deserved all this attention, for he possessed many virtues. He was five feet ten: he was good tempered: he played on the flute: he had his Sunday clothes from a live London tailor: he sung better than any man in Thornborough: and--but perhaps this was hardly considered -he was Lord of the Manor.

Mr. Ralph Ellerby-is he not a better man now you know him ? had twenty-seven Valentines. He burned five and twenty and kept two. Why, two?" One was a sweet, flattering letter, so sentimental, so original-why only five of the lines ended in "love" and "above," and besides it was written on the very best satin embossed paper, and in such a neat, nice crow-quillish, lady-like hand. That he put away in his desk, determined to find out the writer on the first opportunity. The other letter contained nothing but a bunch of white violets: not one word: not even a signature. Ralph put these away toobut inside his waistcoat, and as near as possible where he had been told his heart was.

Ralph was very busy all that week; he tried to conceal his curiosity and passed the merry maidens in the village without answering their questions or heeding their laughs. He took his way to the house of Angela's friends. Angela was the pride of the family, and on this occasion, as if she had expected the visit, was dressed in her new green silk gown; her hair glistening and

fragrant with the last new perfume, red lace mittens on her hands that had cost her a whole shilling last fair-day, and a flower-worked apron as large as a pocket handkerchief, and so be-pocketed, that it must have come direct from Paris. All this preparation might seem out of place, but it will be understood when we say that Ralph had gravely announced his intention, weeks before, of taking unto himself a wife. He was known to care nothing for rank, money he possessed, and it was thought, as his father had by the earnings of his hard industry bought the Lordship of the Manor, Ralph would choose his bride from the Village itself.

Ralph was soon in the little parlour, with its painted curtains, in imitation of Venetian blinds, its rosewood veneering of table and chair, and "chiffioneer"-this last article being a refuge for the condemned, and surrendered in despair to the children; walls covered with a most ostentatious paper, blank of all ornament except over the mantel-piece, where there were portraits of Cowper and Chesterfield, pilfered from the magazines, and honored with black frames. But I had almost forgotten the library. It depended from the wall by some cord machinery on the self-adjustment principle, which was constantly resulting in falls precarious alike to the volumes themselves and the head of the baby, who-obstinate little innocent-would invariably play under it. The library itself was worth a little notice. odd volume of Stillingfleet's Sermons lay next to last month's Fashion book, Lord Byron's "properer" works jostled by "Caleb's in Search of a Wife," there was a stolen volume of

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An

Eugene Aram" from the Circulating Library of the next town, Dr. Watts-Angela's model-occupied a conspicuous place, and the whole was crowned with a volume of manuscript poems by the young lady herself, her scissor-profile occupying the frontispiece.

When Ralph entered, the family were tableau-ing, and the fireside group was good and suggestive.

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Angela!" said Ralph, as he drew her aside.

"Miss Affman, if you please," said the young lady.

His brow fell a little, but he went on and pressed her closely about the letter. He had a lurking fancy for Angela, and would not have been disappointed if she had sent one.

She resented the idea as an insult. "She write to a man!" her modesty was outraged "not she indeed—what did he think of himself a pretty idea!" and so on.

Thus abruptly checked Angela was proceeding on the "Irish-pig" principle-Ralph took his hat and departed.

He took the road to Emmy Bright's mother. Now his path lay through a lane-a green, quiet lane, crowded with flowersfor it was an early spring-and dark with the graceful shadowing of the wych-elm, whose freshly budding leaves arboured it throughout the bye-road ended in a little cottage, warm with thatch, white with its clean low wall, and gay with the clustering of the first roses, heavy and sparkling with the dew. There was a garden gate opening into a little nursery of brier and heath, carnation, gilly-flower and anemone; and bordered with the modest larkspur and the grateful mignionette.

Ralph had a taste for flowers; had indeed won a silver cup at the county exhibition for a preposterous dahlia, but he forgot them all now. It was evening and the whitest and roundest of all little hands was closing the lattice window. Talk about flowers! he had never seen any flower so delicately white as that hand, save perhaps those white violets. Ah! these violets, how they were always stealing into his head. He went on and lifted the latch of Mrs. Bright's door.

Emmy at once ran to meet him, for they were very old friends, -almost as old as Emmy and Angela-they had been at the village school together, and Emmy had sometimes accompanied him with her gentle voice when he labored through his fluteperformances: and then again at the choir, was she not the first treble and the most accomplished "Anthemer" for miles round?

They clasped hands and then-but I scarcely know whether I ought to go on *** But he did'nt get one, and Emmy slid away laughing into the corner of the fireside embracing or rather trying to, her unaccountable little favorite, the hedgehog, who was always kept in the warmest corner, and with whom Emmy rehearsed, as in duty bound, all the nursery fondlings that young ladies lavish on their pets.

There was a little history about the hedgehog. Mrs. Bright abhorred pets, and strictly forbid noisy or locomotive animals. This rather narrowed Emmy's taste and made her decision difficult for she was determined to have one. She first tried a mole, but it would not live away from its fields, and was always throwing up hillocks under the crocuses, and poor Emmy knew nothing of its partiality for the wire-worm: then she bad an owl-but only for a week, for it had an habit of roosting over the china cupboard, and with its round rings of winking eyes once or twice sent Mrs. Bright back fainting into her chair with

fright. Then she tried dormice, but they sickened too-and Emmy who thought these creatures stupid enough in all conscience left them asleep, and in a month or two after, found them dead. Her difficulties were at last put an end to by Ralph Ellerby, who one morning presented her with the little creature that now, like a crumb-brush, lay coiled up under the settle.

A hedgehog after all is not a creature to embrace-and indeed seems in its "cheveaux de frize" of repellants, the horrorstruck incarnation of Platonism. But how Ralph, even with the limited character of the caresses, envied the hedgehog ; quills and all! He sat down as near Emmy as she would let him— on the settle there might have been-mathematically—a distance of five barley corns between them; but Emmy looked very demure and was evidently on the alert for another escape, if necessary.

"Emmy," he said, squirrelizing for one of the little white hands, "do you write poetry "Poetry

poetry ?" echoed Emmy, "do you mean like Clerk gives out Sundays."

"Yes! yes!" quick replied Ralph, who had never gone beyond "Sternhold and Hopkins" except on this occasion.

"Lord bless ye, no!" cried Emmy, "I never made out a verse in all my life."

"Then who could have sent 'em to me?" ejaculated Ralph, now in utter despair.

"Sent you what?" exclaimed the little girl, opening her

eyes.

Ralph had gone a little farther than he intended, and was obliged to tell her all about it.

"Let me see it! let me see the letter!"

After a struggle, and Ralph made her buy the prize as dear as he could, out the letter came, and Ralph read the verses to her, as they held the paper together, in an attitude of great intricacy.

If Angela could only have seen them at that moment!

Ralph read them with great unction, very properly making a full stop at the end of every line to make sure of the rhyme, and coaxing the last word a little, if the verse halted at all. O that every poet had so generous a reader!

"What beautiful verses!" cried little Emmy, "I wish I could write like that. But-" she added quickly," "I don't think I should like to say quite so much to anybody except my husband

and then-and then-why then you know Ralph"-but she stopped herself in a moment, and it was beautiful to see her consciousness struggling with her modesty, as the rushing blood glowed over her brow and face and neck.

There was a very long pause. Ralph was thinking: he remembered at the time he thought the verses were "rather too much of a good thing" he now cared nothing about them, and in his reverie they had fallen upon the ground: and the thinking lasted long enough for the hedgehog-always a most deliberate animal-to roll out of his basket and make the unfortunate rhymes his prey.

"Emmy!" said Ralph at length, "you never send Valentines ?"

"O yes I do!" answered Emmy, in a desperate hurry, "I sent Jenny Abbot one out of fun, and we girls at "the Oakapple" the other night-only you must'nt tell-sent Will Linchpin, the Tailor such a one! and-and-gasped forth Emmy dropping her voice, " that's all."

Unlucky Ralph! why had'nt he kept the other five and twenty. It was all over now.

He took up his hat to go-and put it on quite the wrong

way.

Emmy put it right for him.

But he did'nt take advantage of the suggestive situation. He was crest-fallen.

After all-if he was Lord of the Manor-it was plain the only two girls in the village, worth having, cared nothing for him.

"Good bye, Emmy."

"Why, how grave you are, Mr. Ellerby."

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Yes, I think its the ear-ache come on again."

Emmy ran to her cotton-box, and in her way, "why bless me if that naughty hedgehog has'nt picked up your verses!" "O hang the verses!"

"O for shame, Mr. Ellerby! those beautiful verses !”

"I tell you what it is, Emmy, I'm a miserable man, nobody cares for me-nobody that I care about, I mean-everybody seems happy in puzzling and teazing me.'

At this moment Mrs. Bright entered.

"Emmy, child, whatever have you done with those early violets that grew by the bee-hives ?"5

Emmy was all confusion. To Mrs. Bright's dismay, Mr. Ellerby had clasped her in his arms.